There is nobody here now. The ten tables that I can see from here and the one that is tucked away behind a wall on my far right are all quiet. The chairs are all observing their tables. I can see reams of sheets, piles of files, happy pencils sticking out of full pen stands from the tables. I like how quite this place has the potential to be on good days. On the far end of the field, there is a flyover. Lines of vehicles urge each other ahead with a circus of noise. Behind me I can listen to a curtain of birds calling out to the now quiet, now loud noise of far away traffic. The sky is part vanilla and part black currant with flecks of dull orange today. They aren’t falling on my face like I want them to, especially today.
I am aware that I am breathing now. The chair moves back and forth, back and forth on my toes. I feel like the lover that I was, only day before yesterday, breathing, living, loving. An ugly red eye from a handicapped switchboard breaks the otherwise dimness in the room. The chairs look like the papers that some of them are holding, discarded, used and left.
Tomorrow will be a different day, there will be people and noise and fans and songs. I cannot listen to the creaky noise my chair is now comforting me with. The tea is not too hot now, its taste is mild, like the moment around it, devoid of coasters or conversations. Some chairs look like their owners were angry with it. They look pushed back in fury, in impatience, in a hurry to leave. Some chairs look thoughtful from inside the space they are looking out from, like they know their owners are coming back to sit on them tomorrow.
The click on the keyboard is soothing, it reminds me that I am writing. Too often I look back at the moment when the writing happened, I try to look for creases on her face, her furrowed eyebrows, a smile now and then, tongue clicking, matching the rude click of the backspace key now and then, but I cannot see her in the moment, writing. This clicking happening now is the only assurance that she is in the moment, writing. My words don’t remind me, the colors that the blanket in my mind sees don’t, the warm tea doesn’t.
When the cursor hits the ‘publish post’ option, I hear myself thinking ‘Will I write tomorrow’?
It is rude.